White Light
by flecksofpoppy
Summary: Post-war, Trowa is spending some time on one of Quatre's bases and stumbles across him hanging in a hammock on a particularly hot afternoon. A significant conversation follows. Quatre/Trowa.


**White Light**  
Based on the song "Hunting Bears" which is © Radiohead.  
Completed before 2003

He remembered looking him over, up from his worn shoes, past the stiff denim jeans, up from the green turtleneck to his chin and eyes. He had a blank face with features that didn't seem delicate unless stopping to think about it. Mild agitation would occasionally flash in his eyes if you looked too closely, as if he didn't want to be looked at. At least not by those who didn't need to look at him, or who he didn't expect it from. So when Quatre looked at him, and really looked, he would be faced with a staunch, mild irritation. Nothing about Trowa was obvious, yet his reactions became more clear as Quatre got to know him and his ways.

There was something else about him though, a hopelessness that lacked melancholy; an introverted loneliness of someone who didn't realize that they were lonely. He did everything quietly and without ceremony, carried out the days of peace as if they were no different than the days of war. He certainly felt the change, but he didn't change himself. Maybe he had never been any different than he was now, even as a child. The same glassy gaze with a spark of raw intelligence and strategy, a lion lying in wait under the field of placidly waving grass. On the surface, Trowa's actions all followed into one another fluidly, a steady progression of logic. There was something else there that was anything but fluid though, something sharp and keen.

Quatre wondered how Trowa viewed him. There had always been something different between him and Trowa than there had been with anyone else, something simultaneously lovely and frightening. It was part understanding, and part something else. For a short time, Sandrock's ex-pilot thought he might be in love, his then-young heart liked the idea. The prospect died after the war ended though, when he'd see Trowa and his invisible barriers. Love didn't ache in quite the same way.

It was after the HeavyArms pilot had lost his memory that their relationship had started to change. There was nothing behind the blank gaze at that time except more emptiness, a sort of vast vacancy. Quatre began to develop something different than respect or friendship for Trowa, something a little more delicate. It was a difficult feeling to understand, even for an empath.

He recognized it eventually as tenderness. Maybe not love, and not even lust, but a strong sense of protection for the other boy. First he felt comradeship with the other pilots, and eventually friendship. But his feelings toward Trowa extended further than that to something that needed to be hidden.

Time's natural progression eventually exposed Quatre's feelings, and Trowa became gradually aware of them. Not knowing what to do about it, he just left it alone as he had so many things.

They never had a physical relationship, or even anything close to a romantic one. It was merely the comforting presence of Trowa that Quatre desired, and on Trowa's part, why he had stayed with Quatre was a mystery to everyone. The circus had lasted a brief time until he had returned to the base where they had first met and hovered like a ghost. He was rarely seen in those days unless in the company of the blond ex-pilot. Even then, he was so withdrawn that no one in the blonde ex-pilot's entourage paid him much heed.

Occasionally he would be asked an engineering question. The answer would arrive slowly and without hesitation in specific, certain instructions. He was not unfriendly, yet neither was he cordial. Everyone assumed that he just wanted to be left alone, that he may even be moody, but that was not what Trowa Barton stayed quiet about. In fact, he really didn't have a reason. He just didn't have anything to say, especially not in such quiet days as those that surrounded him.

It was hot as Quatre reflected upon these things, lying sideways on a hammock that he had haphazardly assembled. It was fastened to the entrance of a seldom used hangar where various hooks and other bits of metal poked out of the wall. Quatre hung in the center of the entrance, unworried that any mecha may need to dock as they so rarely used the heavy war machinery any longer. The sun didn't quite reach him at its angle in the sky, but he still hung a leg out over one edge. It dangled just outside of the docking bay above the extensive hundred foot drop to the ground below. Had he rocked the hammock too far to the side, it would have swung right out over the drop. The breeze up here was better though, so he spent most sweltering days hanging in just such a fashion.

He away some sweat from his forehead, a bandanna wrapped around it to keep the hair out of his eyes. It was too hot to think or breathe. He closed his eyes and let a sudden breeze cascade over him, welcoming the slight stir in the air. He loved Earth and it still held the childlike fascination for him that it always had, but he had forgotten how hot it could get out here. Space was a cold, unforgiving place, and he had grown so used to regulated heating that climate changes could be shocking. He still preferred the stifling heat of Earth to the chilly vastness of outer space however.

From the time of Trowa's disappearance and even after his recovery, whenever Quatre looked up at the night sky from Earth, he could only think of the dead HeavyArms pilot floating endlessly in its furthest icy reaches. He shivered a little at the thought.

"Cold?" Trowa's voice echoed through the empty hangar, and Quatre didn't open his eyes.

"No," he replied, cushioning his hands behind his head and stretching a little. "Just thinking."

They didn't say anything for a moment until Quatre opened his eyes and turned toward the dark, shadowy hangar to look at Trowa. The other boy stood, having traded in his turtleneck for a slightly over-sized short sleeved shirt, though he still wore jeans.

"Aren't you hot?" Quatre asked, staring at the pants.

"No," he said, shrugging a little. He blended into the shadows easily.

"Come over here," the laying ex-pilot motioned with a free hand, "the breeze is pretty good."

Trowa moved forward until he was leaning against the side of the docking bay's entrance and across from Quatre, arms folded against his chest as he looked out over the desert. It faced away from the house where Quatre lived and out into a vast wasteland of sand, giving the viewer the impression that he or she was entirely alone.

"It's kind of pretty, huh?" Quatre's blue gaze turned out towards where Trowa was staring, and neither one said anything for a moment.

"You know," he began, dragging up a memory from his heat-lazy mind, "when I first came to Earth, the first thing I ever saw was a flamingo. Have you ever seen one of those?"

"Probably," Trowa replied, his gaze not turning from the horizon as if he wasn't quite listening. "They're pink, right?"

"Yeah," Quatre said, shifting his weight forward to sit up. "They were all over Sandrock. I remember Rashid getting a little angry at me because I kept using the binoculars to look at them and they needed the equipment." He smiled a little.

"Do you want to sit down?" he moved over towards one end of his hammock, offering a side to Trowa.

There was no answer, but he walked to stand in front of it, easily balancing on the outermost edge of the entrance. He didn't seem phased in the least that if he had stepped half an inch out of turn, he would have plummeted to his death.

As his weight settled gracefully on the side that Quatre had abandoned, they sunk together a little until Trowa's leg was pressed firmly against Quatre's. They sat beside each other in silence for a long time, enjoying the occasional breeze that would blow against their sweaty faces. Eventually, Quatre swung himself around so that he could hop off the back to avoid trying to walk along the edge of the building's entrance as Trowa had done, leaving the other boy alone for a moment.

"Do you want some water?" he asked from where he was kneeling just inside the docking bay, clutching a plastic container that he had brought along with him. Trowa nodded. Quatre took a few long gulps before handing it to his unspeaking friend and settled himself back into the hammock.

Quatre watched him drink out of the corner of his eye; Trowa still didn't take more than was needed. It could have been a habit left over from the war, but he had probably been doing it all of his life. After about three measured sips, he handed it back to Quatre who capped the jug and set it back on the cool floor.

"The ironic part is that," he started suddenly, causing Trowa to look at him, "tonight it will be so cold that we'll wonder how we could possibly have worn what he did today."

"You shouldn't look at me so strangely for wearing jeans," Trowa commented wryly, glancing at the cut-offs that Quatre was wearing. He looked like some kind of dejected pirate in his long khaki cut-offs that still had a few threads trailing from the edge of them, a bandanna wrapped around his head, and a big white tee-shirt that the breezes billowed out around his willowy frame.

"You're right," he said, smiling a little, "but...it's too hot to even think!" He flopped over sideways with a gusty sigh, laying his head and shoulders against his end of the hammock. The abrupt movement jostled Trowa a little, and he easily kept his balance as the contraption rocked from side to side.

"Are you tired?" Trowa asked, noticing Quatre's closed eyes curiously. The other boy's brow was sweaty and his face showed signs of fatigue from the heat; he had his eyes closed and one arm dangling limply off the side.

"Not really," he replied, "but I can't sit up and stare at that sand for too long. The sun hurts my eyes."

"It's a bright world down here," was Trowa's reply, "not much like space. It's the exact opposite up there-cold and dark."

"Yeah," Quatre echoed, and he suddenly felt a little nervous. He wanted to ask something, but wasn't sure if he should. He opened his mouth and out came softly, "What was it like up there after I... shot you down?"

Trowa didn't seem phased, but he kept his gaze very carefully and precisely fixed on the horizon. "I don't remember a lot of it. It was dark and very quiet, though. I think I was unconscious for the majority of that time..." he frowned a little, as if confused, "and even now the memories blur together a little."

Quatre frowned in dismay. "I don't know what made me ask that."

Trowa shrugged. "If you really want to know what happened, ask Heero. He'd remember better than you or I would. We were both... preoccupied," he finished, searching for the right word.

"I don't think I need to know anymore than I already do," Quatre replied absentmindedly, and then closed his eyes again. He stayed still for a moment, and then all in one fluid motion shifted his legs behind Trowa so that he was fully laid out. The backs of his bare calves brushed against the fiber of the hammock, and he shimmied over a little so that Trowa still had room to sit.

"Sorry," he said, "sitting like that was starting to hurt my back."

"It's fine," Trowa said a little stiffly, though he didn't move. "I can leave if you want to rest."

Quatre stretched his arms above his head luxuriantly and yawned a little. "No, don't go. I like the company; it can get a little lonely up here sometimes."

The other boy didn't answer, nor did he say anything even as Quatre's legs fell into a comfortable position against the small of his back. Sometimes they sat like this, looking out over the desert, not saying anything. He liked the feeling of those legs like that, of the light dry smell in the air and the bright sand. There was something so casual about it that it was comforting, that there was nothing to understand except the here and now. It was an easy existence.

It seemed just as easy to run a hand up Quatre's leg from the bare ankle to his hip and then let it sit there, a touch that was capable of breaking the simple balance. How convenient Quatre's body was, lying so near to his that it didn't take much effort to shift himself so that he was lying next to him with fingers running across his damp forehead all at once.

"What are you doing?" Quatre asked with sharp intake of breath, and then suddenly it was all very complex.

Trowa didn't reply, didn't quite know what to say or understand what feeling had compelled him to act. He did like the way that the other boy's hair felt against his fingers though, smooth and a little matted from the heat. He knew he had to answer the question at some point, but at first he was content to sidle up next to Quatre and run a curious fingertip down his jaw line, tracing the shape of it. Sometimes he had stared at that jaw in fascination as it spoke, seeming strong and very rigid in contrast to the gentle nature of the boy he had met, the man he knew now.

"Trowa..." and then he had to answer.

"I want to touch you," he said quietly in a voice that was his own but that was entirely different. "Can I touch you?"

"Touch me..." Quatre breathed, nearly choking, "how?"

"Like this," Trowa replied, planning to show him, but became flustered. He wasn't quite sure what he had originally set out to do, and he could do nothing more than lay next to the other boy and grasp at straws. "I'm not sure now."

"You mean..." Quatre answered, as if he had just caught on. "You mean you want to touch me? Not the way that we normally do."

"No, not like that," Trowa agreed, thinking of the casual touching that he and Quatre seemed to do. The occasional graze of hands against one another, the unintentional brush of feet under a table; contact like that. Accidental touches that weren't intended to be anything more than a moment of clumsiness.

Quatre thought about that for a moment, and then wrapped an arm around Trowa from behind. He turned to look at him so that their faces were only inches apart, studying his eyes. "You can touch me how ever you want."

"Wherever I want?" he asked, and he could feel his heart speed up a little.

"I think so," Quatre replied uncertainly, "I want to see how it feels."

"You don't know?" Trowa asked, not sure exactly what he meant.

"Yes, I know," he explained, so aware of the heat building in his body that it almost felt cold outside in comparison, "I don't know how it feels with you, though."

"Oh," Trowa breathed. The syllable was practically lost as Quatre closed his eyes and titled his head back a little. He pulled the ex-HeavyArms pilot against him so that they were pressed against one another, and sighed a little.

"I like the way you feel," he exhaled into the other boy's ear, and Trowa was introduced to a Quatre had hadn't even known existed. The blond hair was as bright as the sand out in the desert and those kind blue eyes that Trowa had known for what seemed like a long time now were burning hotter than the sun.

Laying side by side, Trowa's hands finally sprang into motion again and he struggled to regain that easiness he had felt before. Now he was drowning in a pit of quick sand, shimmering bleached sand filling his mouth, his nose, even his ears; everywhere he was suffocating and how he loved the feeling. He wanted to die for this burning devil in front of him, a fallen angel out of a white sandy heaven, wielding a fire so mighty through his fingertips that Trowa shook.

"How do you know how this feels?" Trowa managed through the weaving fingers that swept over his body like the infrequent breezes through their doorway. Quatre ceased his motion for a moment, slowly pulling back a little to face the object of his tenderness. A tenderness that had finally turned into something else.

"You mean who have I slept with," he said levelly, studying Trowa carefully. "Right?"

Trowa's brows narrowed downward for a nanosecond as he processed the reply, not entirely sure what Quatre thought he was asking and what he actually wanted to know.

"Something like that," he finally said.

"No one, really," he promptly provided the answer, "I never really had time between the war and everything else." He didn't ask Trowa to return the information; instead, he slid a hand up the other boy's back and gently grasped the back of his neck. His fingers absentmindedly stroked the soft cool skin there, and Trowa suddenly felt more delicate to him than ever before.

They laid still for a few minutes, the only movement being the slight ministrations of Quatre's fingertips against the back of Trowa's neck. A breeze blew in over their sweat drenched skin, and Quatre sighed lightly. Eventually the stillness ended and Quatre grasped Trowa's hand in his own for a moment; the hard callused ends of his fingers and the fine boned wrist were held with reverence. When Quatre kissed his fingertips, Trowa shied away. He took his hand back and cradled it against his chest, meeting Quatre's eyes with that hint the indignation that he did sometimes.

"Don't," he said, feeling the last of simple touches and convenience slipping away from him. He didn't like the way that tenderness felt, exposed to the bright light of the shining desert all around them, harshly outlined in Quatre's softening eyes.

"Okay," he said softly, "I won't." He paused, and then something like frustration flashed across his face swiftly. "But let me tell you something. When I first started fighting in this war, I thought everyone was kind and that everyone deserved forgiveness. I thought that the world was a beautiful place and that if I fought, everything would be okay."

His jaw tightened, and he gripped Trowa's hand tightly quite suddenly. "The war made me realize how rare beauty is... and now, with this feeling... it's like..." he faltered for words, sat up quickly with and turned away, releasing the hand almost angrily.

"You make me remember how it felt to be naive, Trowa," he said quietly, his head down turned and staring at the drop. "I see so much ugliness now, and it's all around me. I'm not afraid of it anymore because I was once a part of it. But this thing..." he ground his teeth together, and suddenly his frame seemed less willowy and more harsh in the chiaroscuro lighting of the hangar. "I don't know whether it's good or bad. But if you don't want it, I'm not sure what else to do with it."

Trowa didn't move for a few moments, looking at Quatre's tense shoulders and rigid back as he fought to articulate himself. Eventually he sat up next to him, and for perhaps the first time in his life he was afraid.

"What are you trying to say?"

Quatre looked at him finally through pained unblinking eyes. "A year ago, I couldn't say this. But now I can. It's..." he stopped, and then re-started with a breath, "I want to keep you safe from any more of the world's cruelty," he explained quietly, knowing how childlike he sounded. "I know neither one of us are saints, but damn it Trowa, regardless of what you or I deserve, I want you to have peace."

"Maybe we're both going to hell," he said in a subdued tone as Trowa listened to him attentively, "or maybe just I am. I've killed and you've killed. Sometimes I lose hope because now I know that the bitter taste of real hope stings your mouth, since it has to be preceded by suffering."

He grasped Trowa desperately, all former calm and casualness gone, "I want to give you the last piece of myself that's worth giving. I need to," his voice faltered, and his jaw tensed again as he bit his lip, seeming suddenly wretched.

"You can't save everyone," Trowa said logically in a calm voice, having little sympathy for what Quatre was saying, "we're lucky if we can save anyone, in fact. We're lucky if there's even anything or anyone worth saving."

He spoke softly, "There's more to humankind than kindness and evil, I think. It's not a world of black and white, not like sitting here between cold and heat."

"You're probably right," he replied, letting loose a sigh that made his shoulders slump, "I don't know if that's good or bad."

Trowa shrugged slightly. "Everyone suffers greatly at least once, and everyone does something equally as horrible to someone else at least once. No one is completely innocent or guilty."

"Have you suffered, Trowa?" Quatre asked him carefully, weaving his own fingers together in his lap and setting them there primly. He didn't meet the other boy's gaze for a moment, but as he looked up he realized that Trowa wasn't even looking at him.

"As much as anyone else, I suppose," he finally said after some distant contemplation. "Maybe I've even been better off since I've been able to change something."

Trowa did meet his eyes after a short moment, and Quatre's hands tightened together, his fingers squeezing each other together until it was painful enough so that the aching in his heart abated somewhat. Trowa couldn't accept what he was offering.

"Well," he said finally, breaking his hands apart from where they were clenched, "I think the heat is affecting me." He dropped the topic abruptly.

He laid back on the hammock again, taking care not to swing it around too much. For a moment, Trowa just sat there, lost in thought. Something like regret shone in his eyes for a moment before it was suppressed.

Eventually he laid himself next to Quatre who wrapped a tense arm around Trowa, belying his casual tone of voice. He held onto the taller boy tightly, one arm above his head and the other splayed across his chest. They watched the gargantuan desert jewel fade away into night, and as the night sky laid itself out before them, Quatre shivered a little.

There was the old battlefield laid plainly in front of their eyes, there was Trowa's one-time grave, there was the holder of Quatre's lost childhood. He closed his eyes and his heart felt cold until Trowa took his hand and kissed the tips of his fingers.

When Quatre opened his eyes again, he saw only stars above them.


End file.
